


Trees

by BlueTiesAndFlannelShirts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe/Alternate Canon, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Demisexual Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Human Castiel, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Sonny Just Wants to Help, Teen!Dean Accepting His Bisexuality, Timestamp Format, Vague Underage Dream Sequence, show-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueTiesAndFlannelShirts/pseuds/BlueTiesAndFlannelShirts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentenced to spending two months at Sonny's Boys' Home for attempting the five-finger discount at the local market, sixteen-year-old Dean finds himself crossing paths with Castiel, the home's sullen, brooding groundskeeper. </p>
<p>What starts out as a one-sided rivalry quickly dissolves into an unlikely friendship, and for once, Dean feels like his life is moving in a positive direction. ...Until he starts developing feelings, that is--feelings he fears will ruin everything, especially when he knows it's only a matter of time before John decides he's learned his lesson and thrusts him back into the hunting life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trees

**Author's Note:**

> It took half a year to write this damn thing, but here it is! Finished at last~
> 
> Very special thanks to Sheila and Caroline for betaing for me! This fic would never have been possible without your help and support! <33 
> 
> One last thing, I put a warning about this in the tags, but one more time in case you missed it: there's a dream sequence that contains elements of underage. Castiel isn't physically involved at all--it's only happening in Dean's mind, the descriptions are kept vague, and it cuts off before any actual foreplay/sex happens. That's the only thing you need to watch out for! 
> 
> Alright, enjoy, my lovelies~ <33

_I want to know you,_

_I want to see,_

_I want to say…_

**_Hello._ **

 

 

Dean decides that the groundskeeper at Sonny’s Boys’ Home either used to be, or secretly still is, a serial killer. 

He sees him sometimes, tending to the flower beds around the house or mowing the lawn in an old white T-shirt smudged with dirt and sweat, expression perpetually ornery like he’s prepared to throttle the first person who dares come within a two-foot radius of his freshly-planted petunias. Once, he’d even made eye contact with him, a mistake Dean was not eager to repeat again in his lifetime because the moment he was suddenly the focus of sharp, gunmetal blue, he was convinced the guy had already figured out how to murder him six ways from Sunday. 

Mostly, he just tries to ignore him, especially after the creepy staring contest. It isn’t exactly the hardest thing to do, since the guy is like a ghost, appearing in random places before he sulks off again, nowhere to be seen for the rest of the day. 

He’s just a vague presence, a dark shadow lurking around the edges of the property, carrying out the home’s various chores in brooding silence, and that’s all Dean needs to know about him in the beginning.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost a month before he even knows the dude’s name. 

He’s sitting at the old wooden table in the kitchen, making idle conversation with Sonny when the groundskeeper trudges in through the backdoor, dark hair a mess and scowling like somebody pissed in his cheerios. He’s a lot taller up close, is the only thing Dean notes before he pointedly looks away and scarfs down the rest of his half-eaten peanut butter sandwich. 

From behind him, a gravelly voice that has to belong to the groundskeeper rumbles, “You asked to see me?” and Dean changes his mind about the cheerios because the only way someone gets a voice like that is from eating nails and broken glass for breakfast. 

“Yeah, would you mind checkin’ out the roof on the shed today?” Sonny says, “Last rainstorm did a number on it. Part of it’s getting ready to collapse, I think, judging by the way it’s startin’ to sink in on the one side.”

“Of course. I’ll attend to it as soon as I’m finished with cleaning out the barn.”

Sonny’s quick reply of, “Thanks, Castiel,” has Dean pausing mid-chew. He now has a name to put to the face and it’s disorienting, mostly because he wasn’t expecting a name like  _that_. It’s graceful, undoubtedly religious, and it certainly doesn’t correspond with its owners dark, intimidating appearance. As he sits there contemplating this new information, he feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He knows Castiel is looking at him, and his struggle to swallow around his sticky mouthful of peanut butter in an attempt to appear nonchalant ends with him nearly choking instead.  

Sonny pats his back as he tries not to cough up a damn lung and through his watery eyes, he notices Castiel gently placing a glass of milk on the table. With a mighty effort, he manages to swallow the chunk of sandwich obstructing his windpipe, rasping out an, “M’okay. I’m good,” when he can breathe again. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire, he’s blushing so hard, and he hides behind the glass of milk, downing it in a few gulps. 

Crisis averted, Castiel only spares him an unreadable glance, one Dean imagines must be of exasperation at his foolish antics, and grunts a terse “I’ll make sure to tend to the shed,” as he leaves. 

Dean stares at the cloudy glass cupped in his palms after the screen door slams shut and decides that maybe Castiel isn’t a homicidal killer bent on gutting him while he sleeps, but he’s certainly got a pole shoved so far up his ass it’s practically a second spine. On the bright side, it means he can stop feeling like he needs to go to bed with one eye open, although now he’s pretty sure the guy has some kind of holier-than-thou complex going on, which ticks him off. It’s really too bad for Castiel that self-righteous jerks are Dean’s favorite people to mess with.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he drums his fingertips against the sides of the glass, scheming.

_Let the games begin._

 

* * *

 

Annoying Castiel turns out to be a harder task than he originally thought.

He’s tried the usual methods of making clever digs with various pop culture references, but all he gets in return is an uncomprehending blink and a blank stare. (Seriously, Dean’s pretty sure the guy’s never even seen a TV in his life.) At least he gets a reaction when he starts shortening his name to ‘Cas’, but even then, it’s of baffled curiosity rather than irritation. 

When he tries mucking up the garden by taking shortcuts right through the daffodils, he’s almost positive he’s going to see a disgruntled, moody Castiel grumbling to himself as he replants a fresh batch—he’s miffed to find that the groundskeeper has instead assembled a narrow brick pathway where the crushed flowers used to be. 

Everything he throws at Castiel is met with calm resignation, maybe a quiet sigh if he’s lucky, and in the end it’s Dean who grows frustrated. Twice, now, he’s failed to pin this guy down and frankly, it wounds his ego. He’s always been exceptionally good at reading people; comes with the job, he supposes. It’s a last-ditch effort to save what’s left of his pride when he “accidentally” throws a baseball through the living room window, one which backfires even more spectacularly than all the other incidents combined, because Sonny calls him out on it, thrusts a dustpan and brush at him, and tells him no television, phones, or music until he fixes it—an example of irony at its finest, and one that Dean would normally appreciate, except it’s happening to him and not someone else.   

That’s how he ends up sitting shotgun in Sonny’s pickup truck next to the bastard himself on the way to pick up a new sheet of glass for the window frame.

It’s quiet, save for the rattling of the engine, and Castiel is being his usual stoic self, dutifully keeping his eyes on the road. Dean is decidedly _not_  pouting as he glares out the passenger window, watching as grassy fields of the countryside pass in green blurs. The silence starts to grate on him, and he reaches over to turn on the radio, tuning it to the rock station and grinning when the riff of Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” pumps through the speakers. 

Any Zeppelin song deserves to be played at a minimum of 80 decibels, so he cranks up the volume, uncaring of any complaints Castiel might have.  He doesn’t, of course, because an atomic bomb could go off and Castiel probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelash, but he is frowning slightly when Dean looks over at him.

“What?” Dean deadpans, “Don’t like Zepp?” He says it like he’s daring Castiel to say yes. He kind of wants him to, just so he can have a legitimate reason to be mad at him.

“I assume ‘Zepp’ is the artist of this song?” Castiel replies, squinting at the radio with his brow furrowed in weirdly childlike curiosity, dark head tilted to one side. Dean’s jaw drops so far he’s sure it’s fallen down into the foot well. “It’s strange, I suppose. Different. I don’t mind it.” 

“You don’t know who  _Led Zeppelin_  is?” Dean says slowly, simultaneously horrified and pitying because clearly, Castiel has lived under a rock his entire life if he doesn’t know who one of the greatest rock bands of all time is. It’s not even annoying, like everything else about Cas is—it’s just  _sad_. 

“I don’t listen to music much,” Castiel replies, his tone thoughtful and distant, as though he’s contemplating why that is, like he’s never noticed until now. Dean starts to wonder if maybe  _pathetic_  is more accurate. A life without music is hardly a life at all, or at least a remarkably dull one, the way he sees it. A little part of his soul dies just thinking about it and he supposes it’s probably a good thing he’s in the passenger seat, because if anyone is going rock Castiel’s world through musical enlightenment, it’s going to be him. He reaches to turn the volume a few notches higher. 

“Well, Cas, consider this your first lesson in musical education.” 

The riffs of the guitar are just shy of bursting out of the speakers and it’s loud enough that Castiel has to raise his voice to be heard when he asks, “Why do you call me that?” 

Dean shouldn’t find that as amusing as he does, but he smirks anyway. There’s a fairly good chance it makes him a cheeky brat, but he can live with that. For days he’s been trying to find the one thing that would finally drive Castiel up the wall, and this is the first time he’s actually started to wonder if he’s finally struck a nerve. 

“Does it bother you?” 

Castiel looks as though he’s mulling it over as he squints out the windshield, (Dean’s really starting to worry about the integrity of his eyes at this point—he hopes he just does it out of habit and not because he needs glasses because they’re kind of in a moving vehicle and he’s not wearing a seatbelt) but eventually, he decides that no, he doesn’t, and tells Dean as much. “Though it  _is_  an odd name.”

“It’s fitting, then,” Dean tells him, shrugging.

He actually doesn’t mean it as a jab this time, though he realizes too late that it still sounds like one. Suddenly, it makes sense that Sam feels the need to retaliate with ‘jerk’ every time he calls him ‘bitch’. He manages to save himself, barely, adding, “I just can’t seem to figure you out, man.” 

“I find myself in much the same predicament,” Castiel admits, Dean waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t elaborate any further until he parks the truck in the shopping center lot and cuts the engine. The music stops and it’s too quiet, the atmosphere in the truck going tense, twisting at Dean’s insides. He looks up to see Castiel’s intense blue eyes are staring straight into his, radiating intelligence and a quiet power that he finds both uncomfortable and thrilling. Only after he has Dean’s full attention does Castiel start to speak: 

“You confuse me in that your actions reflect juvenility, yet there is nothing childlike or immature about the way you gauge my reactions; other boys do similar things for the pure sake of havoc, but it’s almost as if you’re looking for something—testing me.” 

Castiel looks him up and down decisively, a gesture that almost has Dean squirming where he sits. Piercing, is the only word that accurately summarizes how he feels being pinned by that gaze as it roves deep beneath his skin, like Castiel has casually pried open his ribcage and is studying the contents. “You’re not a child, nor have you been for quite some time.” 

Dean’s throat goes dry. 

“No,” he agrees, hoarsely. “I guess not.”

Just like that, the sharpness of the groundskeeper’s eyes dull, appearing more gray than blue and impossibly weary even in the brightness of the afternoon sun. Their roles have suddenly reversed, and now it’s him watching as Castiel tries to gather himself. He looks different, vulnerable when he quietly tells Dean, “We’re alike, then, in that way. I only wonder what it is  _you’ve_  seen to take that innocence away from you.”

 

 

Dean snorts wryly. A nagging part of him says it’s probably rude, especially since Castiel has just laid a part of himself bare, trusted him with a hint of the ugly life he’s lived, but then again, he can’t have the first clue what Dean’s own life is like, no matter how hard he’s had it. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

In the pause that follows, Castiel appears to come to some decision or another because he starts tugging the collar of his wrinkled, white button-up aside to expose the space under his collarbone. Dean doesn’t recognize the rune-like symbols spiraling over the skin above Castiel’s heart, but he doesn’t have to understand it to know exactly what it is. He’s seen similar markings printed into the skin of other hunters he and dad had run into on cases, the same blue-black pigment wrapping around their forearms, biceps, hands, sometimes their necks—a warding tattoo. 

“I might.”

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk about it, not for a while, but after the conversation in the car, an unspoken understanding forges between the two of them; for the first time in a long time, Dean feels like he can relate to somebody. 

It’s not that he hasn’t made friends with the other boys living at the home, he has—there’s just no denying the sense of separation he feels around people of his own age group. He’s seen things that look like they’ve come straight from the deepest pits of Hell, creatures that normal sixteen-year-olds stopped believing in a long time ago. Even the ones still young enough to ask for someone to check under the bed, he tells there’s no such thing. 

Just because he’s already been inducted into this life doesn’t mean he should drag other people in, too. His responsibility isn’t to make new hunters; it’s to  _protect_. 

 

 

He wonders if Castiel is trying to do the same—wonders if that’s why he stays.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you ever travel?”

It’s May, and the oncoming summer is beginning to sizzle at the edges of spring. Castiel is weeding the garden while Dean peers at him from the front steps, sneaking sips of the lemonade he was supposed to bring out for him. He snickers around the bendy straw at the affronted expression Castiel makes when he notices—one can only look so threatening when they’re covered from the waist up in dirt and chlorophyll stains. 

Sighing, Castiel gets to his feet, dusting his soil-blackened hands on his jeans and snatches the glass with a grumbled, “Give me that,” forgoing the straw to just gulp down the whole thing in one go. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and Dean finds himself staring at it, unconsciously licking his lips when a dribble of lemonade escapes the corner of Cas’ mouth and trails down the line of his neck. 

Immediately, he feels stupid and ashamed, remembering the time a few years back when he’d met that naval officer, how he’d been mesmerized and gone starry-eyed over the authority the man carried in his uniform and posture. His gawking hadn’t gone unmissed by dad: at first, he’d seemed surprised, but not a second later his features were hardening in a way that spelled out warning, the kind that said, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’d better cut it the hell out’. Dean hadn’t understood what he’d done to earn disapproval, but he’d known better than to ask, casting his gaze to the floor for the rest of the exchange. He did the same now, tearing his eyes away from Cas’ stubble-rough throat in favor of studying his ratty shoelaces. 

“You asked me a question,” Castiel reminds him, dragging him out of his thoughts. 

“Oh, um…yeah,” he stutters, quickly shrugging off his doubts and tucking them away to be ignored in the usual Winchester fashion. “I just wondered that with you being a hunter, it must mean you’re on the go a lot, right?” 

“No,” is the abrupt reply, punctuated by the thud the lemonade glass makes when Castiel sets it on the porch railing. 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because,” Castiel says, “I once lived that life, and it nearly destroyed me and the people closest to me. I did…many things that I regret. At least here, I can do honest work.” 

With that, he descends the porch steps and kneels among the flowers again to continue his task. 

Dean gets it—he  _gets_  Castiel’s want to lead as normal a life he can, because if living here at the home has taught him anything, it’s what the other side is like: free from the burdens and responsibilities of the Job, free from spending lonely nights in strange, dirty, hotel rooms, lacking the money to buy proper food for Sammy. 

But even so, Dean can’t ignore the creeping knowledge that he can’t stay, that he doesn’t  _belong_  here. All of this is just a game of house where he pretends to be an ordinary kid until dad decides he’s done his time. And when he does come, Dean will take back the reins, no questions asked because his duty, first and foremost, is to look after his little brother. 

 

 

It doesn’t _matter_  what he wants.

 

 

* * *

 

In June, some of the boys, the ones who are at the home for behavioral reform, leave to go visit their families. Dean’s dormitory is empty except for three other kids and it’s a little strange with the beds on either side of him unoccupied. He’d started to grow used to it, but he’s not complaining, either. It means he can stay up later, devouring his growing collection of Vonnegut books since his flashlight won’t be disturbing anyone’s sleep and there’s no school in the morning. 

During the day, he hovers around Cas while he does chores. Over the last month and a half, they’ve fallen into a routine, keeping each other company and talking about things that don’t have to do with hunting, although sometimes they talk about that, too. It’s comforting, and Dean suspects the feeling extends both ways, because Cas smiles more—laughs, even. The way he is around Dean is a far cry from the sullen shadow he used to be. 

The change is his demeanor is dramatic enough that Sonny takes notice, remarking with a teasing lilt, “You sure seem more cheerful lately. What’s Dean puttin’ in that lemonade?” 

Dean accidentally overhears the conversation from the foyer, pausing in taking off his shoes to listen. He hears Castiel give a low, rumbling peal of laughter, clearly amused. 

“I suppose I am,” he says. “Dean and I come from similar backgrounds and it’s…it’s nice to be able to relate to someone. I’d hadn’t even realized how isolated I’d become before his friendship.” 

There’s a pause that stretches like an ocean tide reaching to touch dry shore, or perhaps a rubber band, taut and fit to snap. Dean holds his breath, waiting for one of them to speak.

“You know, son,” Sonny offers in a quieter tone, “just because you work here doesn’t mean you can’t think of this place as your home, too. You don’t have to be such a stranger.” 

“...I know. And I assure you it’s nothing having to do with trust. You’re a good man, Sonny, and I do consider you a friend,” Castiel promises him, and Dean can hear the restraint in his voice. He knows there are things Castiel wants to say, but can’t, because the less Sonny knows about his past, the safer he is. 

“Good to hear. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of—there’s no reason to feel like you have to go through everythin’ alone.” 

Even though the words aren’t directed at him, they cinch around Dean’s heart, squeezing at it as though they were. He wishes he could believe them. 

Castiel doesn’t answer, and Dean knows he wishes he could believe them, too.

 

* * *

 

The smell of caramelized onions and spices wafts through the kitchen in steamy clouds, permeating the first floor of the home with a mouthwatering aroma. It’s absolutely heavenly, a scented promise of the culinary masterpiece to come, but Dean wrinkles his nose as he witnesses Castiel dump a cup of honey followed by what looks like half a bottle of ketchup into the pot where he’s already added some water to the onions. He pauses in his task of gathering a stack of plates from the cabinet to peer around Cas’ shoulder. 

“Are you sure you’re doing this right? Last time I checked, those things don’t taste very good together.” 

“Yes,” Cas answers matter-of-factly without looking up. He opens a bag of brown sugar next, dumping a third of a cup into the churning concoction and Dean watches the brown lump dissolve with all the seriousness of a man sentenced to death.  

“We’re gonna die,” he laments as the sugary sandcastle sinks beneath the roiling sea of watery ketchup. “This is like fifth grade when everybody took their leftover sandwich crusts and mixed it with vanilla pudding and orange juice. Does Sonny know what he agreed to when he said you could make the barbeque sauce?” 

“I’m not going to poison you,” Castiel sighs, holding up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to read the label. To Dean’s horror, he cracks open the cap and dumps in a splash without bothering to measure it. 

“You know, for some, strange reason, I don’t believe you.” 

Castiel ignores him and tells Dean to pass him the olive oil and apple cider vinegar. 

“Just have faith,” he says patiently. Dean leans back against the sink as he watches Cas reach for a clove of garlic next, cracks it under the flat of his knife, and peels it, setting two of the waxy, white centers on the cutting board. He reaches again for the chef’s knife, and in a flash of silver, he spins it in his grip, catching the handle with impeccable precision, never breaking motion as he drives the blade forward and down into the garlic. The cloves make a soft  _crunch, crunch, crunch_  as Castiel dices them into small cubes in record time and Dean is in awe. 

“Knives were my weapon of choice,” Castiel explains in a casual tone as he dumps the chopped garlic into the pot with one clean scrape. In another fluid movement, he turns the knife so the point is angled down, and embeds it in the wooden cutting block with a swift, decisive jerk of his arm. 

“ _Dude_ ,” Dean blurts, not bothering to hide his boyish glee. “That’s awesome! Show me what else you got.” 

Castiel chuckles, tells him, “Perhaps another time.” 

Admittedly, Dean is kind of disappointed when no other ingredients need to be cut up, but he’s certainly not disappointed when Cas asks him to taste the sauce when it finishes simmering. Despite the questionable combination of ingredients, it’s the best barbeque sauce Dean’s ever tasted—the perfect blend of tart and sweet with just a hint of smoky spice, and it’s even better when it’s slathered on the grilled chicken or mixed with the baked beans they have for dinner.

The remainder of the evening is spent gathered around the grill with Sonny and the rest of the boys, using what’s left of the coals to roast marshmallows for s’mores. Only one kid’s marshmallow goes up in flames and everyone is in hysterics when melted fluff and chocolate gets stuck in Sonny’s mustache. 

Warm and loose from laughter and a hearty meal, Dean goes to bed that night filled with the kind of content that slowly spills over into drowsiness, falling into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in twelve years.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He dreams about Cas’ hands. 

He dreams about them cupping his shoulders and his hips with all the expertise and confidence as they did gripping that knife, but gently, like he’s something to be cherished—pictures those long, elegant fingers skimming along his ribcage through his shirt and shudders under the feel of their muted touch.

Heat erupts under his skin when suddenly it’s Castiel’s lean body pressed against him, the solid plane of his chest flush with his back, narrow hips curved to rest against the swell of his backside. He feels Cas tuck his face under his jaw to rest in the crook of his neck, stubble dragging rough and prickly against the sensitive skin, his voice like thunder rolling over a stormy sea, charged like lightning ready to strike.

When he closes his eyes and surrenders to sensation, he can almost smell the salt and crisp earth that’s always clinging to Cas’ clothes surrounding him and he reaches out desperately, blindly catching Castiel’s hand. It’s comforting, the way their fingers lace together and he doesn’t ever want to let go—needs Cas to know that, too.

Without him saying, Cas understands—he  _always_  understands—and promises him he won’t, tells him, ‘It’s all right, I’ve got you.’ They’re innocent words, meant as they are, but Dean finds himself burning hotter all the same and he arches back, wordless begging for more. For words or touch, he doesn’t know, but he  _wants_  so badly it hurts, and—

When he jolts awake, he’s drenched in sweat and coming all over the inside of his boxer briefs, a strangled groan escaping from him as his hips shove helplessly into his mattress. He’s gasping from a combination of shock and mortification as he trembles through the aftershocks, sticky and miserable, and tangled in his sheets. All the warmth from earlier goes cold and stale as shame swallows him and frustrated tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

He doesn’t normally believe in the prophecies of dreams, but the incriminating proof is coating the inside of his shorts and even the part of him that wants to deny until his dying breath knows that certain truths are unavoidable, no matter how much he’s tried not to think about it. Burying his face in his pillow, he thinks about what dad would say if he knew. 

 

 

His shoulders begin to shake with quiet sobs when the thought becomes too devastating to bear.

 

* * *

 

It’s still dark when he staggers outside on bare feet.

The sky is a placid ocean above him—deep, navy blue, dusted with clouds the color of fresh bruises that glide along in the wind like silent sea creatures. Warm night air curls around his shivering frame, fluttering through his sleep-mussed hair and brushing over his cheeks where his skin is still raw and damp. He feels like chest has been hollowed out, gutted like a Halloween pumpkin, all his insides scraped up and thrown aside. The surroundings that he’s become accustomed to over the past two and half months only make the emptiness yawn wider and ache. He wraps his arms across his stomach, a weak attempt to hold himself together as he starts toward the dirt road leading into the fields. 

He just wants to escape for a while, get a clear enough head that he can shove everything he’s feeling back down and stop thinking about—

“Dean?” 

He freezes instantly, limbs going stiff and useless at the sound of the familiar graveled timbre. There’s a flashlight at his back, the beam’s soft light bleeding around the edges of his silhouette, and he hears footsteps shuffle through the dry grass towards him. 

“What are you doing up this late?” 

He would ask Cas the same thing, but they’d talked about this once: chronic insomnia, his brain supplies, and Cas’ constant struggle to get decent rest that didn’t come from eventually passing out in exhaustion. Not that he could’ve gotten the question out anyway—his throat feels like it’s been replaced with a bendy-straw, barely even capable of allowing him to breathe, let alone produce words. 

Dean can sense Castiel’s presence looming behind him, a steady, static hum that hovers just outside his personal space. He waits for him to do something, to reach out, lay a comforting hand on his shoulder—he doesn’t. Instead, he waits, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s grateful or terrified. 

“S’nothing,” he manages to croak out unconvincingly, curling in on himself until his shoulders bunch up by his ears. 

Castiel doesn’t buy it for a second. 

“What is it, Dean? What’s wrong?” he coaxes, and this time, he does touch him, a barely-there press of fingertips on his shoulder blade. Like a frightened animal, Dean flinches violently away from it and whirls around, panicked gaze fixing on a concerned-looking Cas with his hand still outstretched. 

“Don’t!” Dean gasps, “Don’t. Please, just…I-I can’t—“

 

 

His jaw locks up around the rest and he can only shake his head as he turns and runs as far as his legs will take him.

 

* * *

 

He ends up in some poor farmer’s lettuce fields a little less than a mile down the road. 

The soil is moist and cool against his knees where he slumps at the edge of the crop, chest heaving as he regains his breath. Cas catches up a few minutes later. Without saying a word, he crouches down beside him a safe distance away, sitting pretzel-legged in the middle of the dusty dirt road. Dean wants to be as far away from him as possible, but he’s too tired to run anymore and he doesn’t think Cas would leave if he asked—not when he’s so clearly distressed. Exhaustion settles heavy in his bones, and he hangs his head in defeat. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells Cas before anything else can be said, voice sounding strangled and fragile even to his own ears. 

“You don’t have to,” Cas replies softly, “But know that I want to help, and that you will be safe from judgment should you choose to confide in me.” 

It’s his earnestness that finally breaks Dean down and he makes the mistake of looking up, meeting Castiel’s eyes in the dark. With the moon as the only source of light, they’re the same color as the sky—deep, sad blue and containing more galaxies than the line of the Milky Way glittering through the gaps in the clouds. 

“…I’m weak,” he whispers through quivering lips, squeezing his eyes shut and hating the tears that roll unbidden down his cheeks. He quickly scrubs them away. 

“Dean Winchester, if there is one thing you are not, it is weak,” Cas growls fiercely in a tone that leaves no room for question. It’s the most passion that Dean has ever heard from him and though he’s not looking, he knows Cas is staring at him with the same intensity as he did back in that worn down truck so long ago. It tears him open and everything he’s been keeping inside bursts forth in gush. 

“Then I’m fucked up!” he sobs. “Guys aren’t…they’re not supposed to like other guys, and I—Dad would be furious if he found out. I-I don’t know how to stop and it doesn’t help that I still like girls because I still want—it’s so messed up!” 

The tears are running freely now as his voice wavers and cracks on the last part, and Dean gives up the fight to try to hide them. Reining in his emotions feels like trying to cram an explosion in a Tupperware container now that he’s at the breaking point. Castiel remains steadfast in his silence as he crumbles, though he does shuffle closer, carelessly dirtying the knees of his slacks.

“Dean, I want you to listen very carefully to me,” Castiel tells him softly. “There is nothing wrong with you.  _Nothing_. This attraction you’re feeling—it’s completely natural, and it’s natural to—“ 

Dean turns away doubtfully before Castiel can finish. “It’s  _not_  natural,” he insists, dejected. He turns his hands palm-up from where they rest on his knees, staring at them as if searching for some kind of biological flaw in his design beneath the freckles and small scars dotting and dashing his skin. 

Castiel gives a doleful smile. “Over 1000 species would like to disagree with you.” He pauses, mulling something over. “Tell me Dean—is it wrong to be left-handed?” 

Confused, Dean looks up and replies with a hesitant, “No…” 

He doesn’t know exactly where Cas is trying to go with a conversation starter like that, or what he’s trying to prove, although he’s beginning to suspect a metaphor is about to come into play. Cas is often too blunt to entertain euphemisms—perhaps it’s the mark of a poet instead, sparking behind those blue eyes as he tilts his head skyward and searches for the right words. 

“Most of the world’s population is right-handed,” Cas states. “This includes me, and I’d venture to guess you, also. It’s…our preference, just as writing with their left-hand is another person’s preference. Perhaps someone is even capable of writing with either hand and enjoys both. We don’t choose which hand we write with, just as we don’t choose whom we are attracted to, and no one preference is wrong or right. It’s something that’s ingrained in us, without thought. Does that make sense?” 

Dean doesn’t have an answer at first, staring at Castiel with a mixture of bewilderment and incredulity, not sure what to make of the unexpected turn of events. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this scenario, where Cas proved that he was far more understanding and encouraging than he could have ever hoped or thought possible. It’s not often Dean finds himself at a loss, given that smartass retorts and sarcastic rejoinders come to him as easy as breathing, but Cas has been an enigma since the beginning—really, what’s surprising is the fact he hasn’t learned to accept that by now. 

When he does find the words, they reflect a rare shade of sincerity he usually reserves for Sam and he asks, “How do you know all this?”

Cas shrugs. “In our line of work, there’s no shortage of human diversity. And I’ve had my own problems in accepting myself. What’s ironic is that my own metaphor doesn’t exactly work for me, as I would be the person who prefers neither hand, I suppose.” 

“You mean, you don’t— _nobody_?”

“Nobody,” Cas agrees pensively, shaking his head. “One thing I’m sure of, if nothing else, is that it’s… complex, the way these things work. What you choose to make of that is up to you.”

It’s an occupational hazard that Dean’s learned to trust so few and far between, but right now, in this moment, more than anything, he trusts Cas. 

How he’ll feel about all of this later is still uncertain, and he doesn’t pretend to know.  It’s one thing to feel comforted by Castiel’s words, and another thing entirely to start accepting them for himself.

He thinks he could learn to, though.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dean is restless after he and Cas arrive back at the home, despite being exhausted.

But he must fall asleep sometime between collapsing on his unmade bed and staring at the ceiling trying to process everything, because the next thing he knows, Sonny is nudging him awake. Blinking slowly in the watery morning light pouring from the window, he sits up, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. The little hand is just shy of the eight mark. 

As he takes in Sonny’s apologetic expression, a sick feeling swoops low in his stomach, suddenly terrified that Sonny knows about what happened last night.

He almost wishes that  _were_  the reason when he finds out the truth. 

“Your dad’s here—he’s waiting outside for you. Said you had a ‘job to do’, and that you’d know what that means.”

He does, and he knew this day was coming—expected it, even—but that doesn’t mean he was ready for it. Of course, that’s irrelevant, and there’s another, more immediate problem: he can’t find Cas. 

For as long as he can, he stalls, tossing out some half-assed excuse about how he might have left something in the yard or in the house, but the groundskeeper is nowhere to be found. Sonny notices his reluctance to leave and stops him in the living room, laying one of his large, calloused hands on his shoulder not unlike how Bobby does when he senses something is upsetting him. It grounds Dean, and he sags under its weight. 

“I can talk to him,” Sonny offers, “I’ll go out there and talk to him t’see if he’ll let you stay, if that’s what you want.” 

For a moment, Dean is torn, his jaw working around the words he wants to say, until he looks out the window to the Impala idling in the street out front. Sammy is folded up in the backseat holding a fraying, dusty tome (probably one of the Latin books dad’s always insisting they read) but he’s not looking at it—instead he’s staring out the window at the door expectantly, waiting wide-eyed and patient.

He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to smile as he thanks Sonny for everything, and tells him that he needs to go.

 

* * *

 

They’re a mile down the road that leads back into the city when they pass Castiel.

John is silent at the wheel and doesn’t slow down as they zip by, but the moment seems to pass in slow motion in Dean’s eyes. He watches Castiel’s tired, but content face tilt up to acknowledge the vehicle rumbling down the quiet road and the recognition that comes too slowly filter into his expression when he catches a glimpse of Dean in the passenger’s seat. He’s carrying several jars of what looks like raw honey in his arms and in the side view mirror, Dean sees him turn, staring after them as they drive further and further away. He looks small and vulnerable, standing on the side of the road with his mason jars of honey, and Dean can’t stand to look any longer, but he does anyway. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off him until they descend down a dip in the road and Cas disappears from view.

 .

.

.

Ten years later, when Dean finds himself in a tight spot with a group of vampires, a trench coated stranger comes to his rescue in a blur of beige and silver, red ribbons of blood following in his wake as he systematically begins lopping heads off. 

It wasn’t unheard of to run into other hunters on a job—hell, sometimes it was the difference between life and death. The stranger had more than likely picked up on the nest’s trail of causalities a few days ago and by a stroke of dumb luck, managed to track them down shortly after Dean had. Whatever the case, Dean is grateful for the assistance, and between the two of them, the nest is vanquished relatively quickly, headless bodies littering the dusty ground all around them.

The stranger in the trench coat has his back turned as he stands, catching his breath in the aftermath of the fight, and Dean rasps a quick, “Thanks for the help,” as he mops up the vampire viscera on his face with the clean side of his sleeve. It’s only when he turns and Dean sees his gray-blue eyes flashing in the dim light that he recognizes him. 

“ _Cas_ …” 

The Castiel before him is very different from the one he knew ten years ago. He’s older, for one—wrinkles have begun to form at the corners of his eyes and his jaw has squared out, sharper and more defined. Gone are the dirt-stained t-shirts and jeans also, replaced by the trench coat, a cheap suit, and a backwards, blue tie dangling loosely around his neck. Besides the obvious physical changes, there’s a dark weariness hanging heavy in his gaze that was present before, but not as prominent as it is now, shadowing his features and weighing down his posture with its invisible burden. Dean thinks he must look similar because Castiel suddenly looks very sad, even in his shock at their unexpected encounter. 

“Dean,” he breathes. It sounds reverent, the way he nearly caresses that single syllable as it leaves his lips, and Dean’s never felt so undeserving in his life.

Both of them are at a loss for words, then, and silence falls thickly over the smell of blood permeating the air of the old barn. When they parted ways, there was still so much to be said, but whatever needed to be spoken back then has no significance now; Dean knows that as he tries and fails to find a good way to broach the topic. After all, did they even know each other anymore? Dean knows he’s certainly changed, and if Cas is hunting again, surely he’s not quite the same person either.

Finally, he says the only thing that makes sense, because this is the moment of his life he didn’t know he was waiting for, and like hell he’s not going to try:

“It’s been a long time, man.”

Then, something incredible happens—Cas  _smiles_  and though there’s a ruefulness echoing in the curve of his mouth, he’s every bit as beautiful as Dean remembers, with his earnest eyes and chapped lips. It reminds him of a distant night, when he’d sat in a lettuce field and cried his insecurities to Cas, who had taken them in his capable hands, reshaped them, and shown Dean he had nothing to be ashamed of. The memory carries with it a rush of familiarity, slow and warm and lighting him up on the inside, and Dean knows that he doesn’t want to let this man leave his life again. He  _can’t_.

Perhaps things haven’t changed much in that respect.

.

.

.

 

_Everything will change, but love remains the same._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics at the beginning from Trees by Twenty One Pilots
> 
> Lyrics at the end from Love Remains the Same by Gavin Rossdale
> 
> Thanks for reading! <33


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